


those bloody petals (on your lips)

by Morte_Sangriz



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst and Tragedy, Anxiety, Canon compliant for the most part, Canon-Typical Violence, D.Gray-man Big Bang 2018, Depression, Hanahaki AU, M/M, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-06 04:58:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15879036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morte_Sangriz/pseuds/Morte_Sangriz
Summary: “I’ve fallen in love, Master,” The words would slide off his tongue like barbed wire, slicing his mouth open, catching on his teeth, drawing blood from his throat, “I fucked up and fell in love.”





	those bloody petals (on your lips)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my project for the DGM Big Bang 2018! I was paired with the marvelous TittyAlways who is a bit busy right now, so whose art will be linked here when it's done. I'm excited to see it and as eager as I am, I decided to post the actual fic right now, although I will be sure to add the art link when I can. 
> 
> (I apologize in advance for all the angst.)

_i_.

Allen has his heart broken by accident on a cool Autumn evening.

Usually, he’d wait until daytime to return to the Order but sometimes, like right now, he’s close enough to the Order to make it without much hassle. The Finder following him back looks distressed when Allen tells him of his decision but settles after he points out that another half-hour of travel won’t make things worse than they already are.

“I’m sure it’s not really a serious head wound anyway,” He says with a laugh despite the hot throb in his head when he does. He wipes away the blood dripping into his eyes with the sleeve of his torn coat. The Finder guides him towards one of the hidden entrances the Order has all over the place. His arm is slung over the Finder’s shoulder and underneath him, Allen’s feet are unsteady. “We’re close enough that it’d be a waste of time to wake everyone up.”

The Finder doesn’t respond. The silence is telling.

Clearly, the Finder thinks Allen is an idiot for pushing himself more than he needs to when it would be easier to call the medical team to their location. Although maybe Allen’s stubborn nature has made it into the rumors that circulate the Order about him- about the cursed boy who refuses to leave anyone behind and cries for Akuma like they deserve to be mourned- because the man doesn’t argue further.

Allen is tired of hearing people wonder what’s wrong with him for caring so much about Akuma. Of catching the tail-end of whispers calling him ‘ _The Destroyer of Time_ ’ like it’s a normal thing to refer to people by ominous names of prophecy.

Having people complaining about how hard-headed he is would be a pleasant change for once.

It takes a few minutes but they finally make it into one of the Order’s hidden entrances. The Finder helps him hobble into one of the gondolas, head steadily throbbing and blood sticky on his scalp. Allen is woozy and a part of him wonders if the Finder hadn't had the right idea in suggesting they call a medical team to pick them up.

It's too late to call them now, he tells himself as he forces his eyes open after closing them without noticing. The water softly rocks the boat underneath them. The Finder guides the small boat along the calm waterway with occasional glances at Allen, who is trying to keep from slumping in his seat.

They arrive between what feels like a long blink to the next and dock the boat on the small pier beside the Order entrance. The throbbing in his head has grown, making the world spin when he gets to his feet and it’s one part luck, one part the Finder’s help, that Allen doesn’t trip backward into the water as he steps out of the boat.

The Exorcist coat he wears is drenched in sweat and blood. It feels sticky and hot on his skin. Allen has the urge to shrug off the thick fabric but even if he’s concussed, he can clearly tell that doing so will not be an action approved by the Finder half-carrying him up the winding flight of dimly illuminated stairs.

He stumbles and it's a miracle he doesn't fall, taking the Finder down with him. As it is his knees knock onto the stone stairs with a painful thud that sends a jolt up his spine and makes him drag in a sharp hiss of air. The Finder’s hands are gentle as they help him back to his feet- but Allen’s cheek flood with color regardless.

Allen counts his footsteps silently, taking note of how hard it gets to keep his eyes open as the numbers creep higher- until his mind can no longer keep track of how many stairs he has climbed and he lets his efforts taper off into nothingness.

Time flows oddly inside this staircase. Almost like it’s frozen- like it can’t remember how to allow seconds to pass without the beat of a metronome to follow. Everything is washed a flickering orange from the gaslights lining the stone walls, there is no sunlight- or even the absence of it to guess at what time it may be, at how much has ticked past while they’ve been within the embrace of the earth.

By the time they reach the last of the stairs Allen is panting and not even the Finder holding him up can stop him from slumping against the nearest wall. This is what he gets for boasting about being perfectly alright, as opposed to the blood on his face and the way he can’t take a step without his legs wobbling under him.

“Shit,” the Finder hisses and lets him settle against the wall with another whispered curse, he looks between Allen and the hall with flickering eyes, “I’ll go call the Head Nurse. Wait here.”

Allen isn’t sure he replies but either way the Finder spares him a single worried glance and speeds away. By the time the Finder’s footsteps have entirely left, Allen has forgotten the conversation already, hefting himself up and taking sluggish, wobbly steps toward where he thinks the infirmary is.

There is a wetness sliding down his temple. When he wipes it away he can't be sure of whether it is blood or sweat, not with the once white fabric of his gloves stained a brownish red and his vision swimming the way it is.

His pace is dreadfully slow.

Timcanpy is fluttering ahead of him, a golden shimmer in the shadowy halls that does it's best to lead him where he needs to go. He can't remember where Tim has been this entire time, though there is a part of his coat that feels emptier than it had been earlier, where the golem must have resided. He wonders if Tim has been recording him this entire time.

The hallway is long but Allen reaches the end of it faster than he thought he would. He blinks dazed eyes at the split in the pathway, gaze absentmindedly drinking in the dancing flames from inside their glass coverings and at the way the shadows under his feet stretch and shrink in the light. Small red droplets hit the ground and Allen wonders if blood can stain stone, clutching at his head and the wall with shaking hands.

“Ah, Tim,” he murmurs, sliding down the wall on unsteady legs, “You should get some help.”

The golem flutters around his head for a moment longer, before speeding down the hall.

Where is he anyway? Allen knows he’s at Headquarters, he’s just never taken this path from the waterway before. The brick here looks older, as do the gaslights lining the aged walls.

There are a few doors here. All of them firmly closed except one. The cracked wood of the door is opened wide enough that the light from the hallway spills inside of it. Despite the fact that the floor that Allen is sitting on is incredibly dusty, the room beyond the open door looks freshly swept- oddly clean in comparison to the rest of the hall.

Allen tilts his head to the side, blearily gazing at the open doorway. He takes a soft breath and pauses, freezing in his movements when a sharp inhale reaches him from the room. There is movement from within, twin silhouettes framed from the dim glow of the gas lights. They’re close enough that for a moment, Allen thinks there is only a single person.

Then, they split apart, heavy panting loud enough to reach him even from the hallway.

Allen knows exactly what he’s accidentally witnessing; has seen a similar tangle of shadows when his master had come back from a night of drinking with women clinging to him- close, closer- a tangle of limbs with seemingly no beginning or end.

But in the room, the pair shifts closer to the light and for a second, their faces are illuminated enough to make out who the intertwined lovers are.

“Oh,” Allen breathes and there is a pain in his heart that has nothing to do with his injuries.

He loses track of how much time he vacantly heats the shifting of fabric- muffled moans, hissed curses. With each sound, something inside him _twists, tears, tangles._

“There he is!” A voice calls and in a blur of a moment, the Finder from earlier kneels before him. “You’re okay now, I found help.”

Hands raise him from the floor gently, laying him on a firm stretcher and adjusting his limbs so that he doesn’t fall off when he’s raised. He allows his eyes to flutter shut for a moment, fighting against the burn of tears. He opens them again when the nurse closest to his face prods him awake, telling him that he cannot sleep until it is deemed safe for him to do so.

Eventually, the stretcher begins to move.

And as it passes by the shadowed training room, Allen’s eyes don’t leave the shadows just beyond the cracked doorway; where he knows Lavi and Kanda linger like ghosts in the darkness- limbs intertwined, breaths mingling, kissing as if the world will crumble at their feet if they pull apart just for a moment. A part of him- the weeping, screaming, _mourning_ part of him- wishes that it would crumble either way. 

* * *

 

 

_ii._

“You have a concussion,” The Head Nurse tells him with a soft click of her tongue. She dips a rag into a bowl full of warm water and wipes the blood away from his wound, peering intently at the gash near his hairline. “You’re lucky that this won’t scar,” She sighs, dropping the rag into the bowl of now dirtied water and making her way to a nearby table. “There’s not much I can do for you besides bandage it up and let you rest, although, I can’t let you fall asleep until I know that there’s not any serious damage.”

Even if he could, Allen doesn’t think he’d be able to sleep. He doesn’t voice this, simply nods his head, wincing at the throbbing in his temples at the action; and allows the Head Nurse to wrap a bandage around his head. “I’m sorry for the trouble.”

She frowns, lips pinched together in disapproval, “I don’t want to you see you in my infirmary again for a long time, Allen Walker. You’re here more often than any one of the others.” Allen knows she’s right about that. He’s never been the most cautious, mostly since he can’t imagine not throwing himself into a mission, body, and soul, even if it means that he has to be reckless with his well-being to save as many people as he can.

She gathers her supplies and bundles them in her arms, heading toward the door. Pauses. Looks back at him with a softer expression and a worried glint in her eyes, “But don’t be an idiot and think that it’s because it’s any trouble to patch you up.”

He doesn’t have a response to that; the Head Nurse leaves before he can think of one.

The rest of the night is spent vacantly staring at the gray ceiling above the infirmary bed with blurry eyes, damp cheeks, and an ache in his chest that throbs in time with his heartbeat. A nurse is sent in to check on him every hour. When they arrive, Allen can’t bring himself to smile at them the way he usually does; just does as they bid him, following their fingers in front of his nose and swallowing the pills they ask him to take.

He’s hyper-aware of the steady thumping inside his ribcage. His breaths are shallow. He knows that he should take even breaths, but every time he does, it feels as if there is something cutting into the inside of his lungs. It itches. It aches.

It feels wrong. Unnatural.

Like his heart is beating against a wall of bone- thumping, thumping- against his sternum until it’s nothing more than a bloodied mush. He feels that if he could see it- the heart thrumming on in his chest- that it would be a patchwork of mottled purple and vibrant blues, of fading brown and aged yellow, of gnarled tissue and thin silvery scars. A kaleidoscope of all heartache he has lived through has survived, with his heart scarred and bruised; but still pounding away inside the cage of his ribs all the same.

These fresh bruises in his heart make it hard for him to breathe.

Maybe, if he were to trace the darkening edges of dark purple, it would spell out the letters of Lavi’s name. Maybe, if he were to search a bit deeper, he would find Kanda’s name there too, stained in grim lines of what burns like betrayal but he knows is nothing of the sort. For there to be a betrayal, after all, there has to be the knowledge, the breach of trust; and though Allen trusts Kanda with his life (years of fighting side by side will do that, despite the blatant antagonism between them, which is more a force of habit than anything else) there is no one besides the ghost of Mana and the silent night air that knows about his feelings towards Lavi.

Allen thinks about how strongly his father felt about love and wonders if Mana would weep if he were to see him now. Here in the darkness, bloody, beaten, feeling every breath catch in his throat as if they’re clawing their way out of his paper-thin lungs with hot irons; he thinks that even if Mana wouldn’t weep for him, Allen would do it for himself. Here, in the silence of the infirmary, with nothing but the sound of his heartbeat- Allen drags in breaths that leave his lungs weeping from the strain.

He wonders if this is what a broken heart feels like. 

* * *

 

  
_iii_.

Allen ends up forgetting a lot of what happened that night. Although most of what is missing in his memories consists of the mission, the moments directly after, and how he found himself back at the Order.

He forgets the Akuma that injured him.

He forgets the way it had scythes for fingers and gleaming red eyes; just like he forgets how its lizard-like tail slammed him through three buildings in a rage. Simply forgetting though, does not mean his body does not feel the effects afterward. His skin is too fair to hide away the ugly bruises blooming upon it, even if he does not recall the reason for the burst of violet and red splattered all across his back and winding up around his ribcage like tendrils of creeping ivy.

(Later, Tim will show him the recordings and Allen will be baffled as to how something so deadly, so horrifying, can be missing from his memory. It will emerge only in blurry images as the weeks go by, but never be as fully clear as the other things he remembers from that night.)

He will never remember how he found himself at the entrance of the Order, bloodied but still standing, determined to make his way to the infirmary on his own. He will not remember the whispers that followed him as he trekked back to the Order, to begin with; nor the concerned hands of strangers that raised him from the ground when he collapsed.

(Not even Tim’s recordings ever bring back those memories.)

He remembers fleeting things. Unimportant things. All from the span of time after he finished his mission, up to when the menacing cliffside loomed high above him with the Black Order tower hidden from view but still present; mixed in with the blurred smears of color and sound of the world, he was too dazed to notice as he trudged back home.

He forgets most of the conversation he has with the Finder, although he remembers the journey up the stairs in flashes of muted light and long shadows under his feet; in the taste of dust and blood on his tongue; in the echoing reverberation of his footsteps and the pounding of his blood in his ears.

He does not forget what he saw from the shadows of that abandoned hall.

As the time slides by and he recovers from his injury, the memory sinks its hooks into the grooves of his brain and does not let go. Allen doesn't think it is something that he will be able to forget, not when since then it’s like something has sunk its teeth into the flesh of his heart. Not when images of Lavi and Kanda are seared into the back of his eyelids, where he cannot escape from the truth. 

* * *

 

 

_iv._

The infirmary is dark, painfully dark even with the curtains open and thin beams of faint sunrise streaming through the window. It is here he allows his mind to drift off- awake but not entirely coherent- thinking about things that makes the persistent itch in his lungs grow stronger. The pain inside him becomes sharper as the hours pass by. More defined.

He thinks that maybe he should ask someone about the way time seems to freeze when he meets Lavi’s eye. About what it means when he can’t go a day without thinking about the sound of his friend’s laughter, of how the wind plays with those strands of red hair in a way that leaves his fingers twitching and his heart full of envy.

Is this what love is? Is it another thing that Allen can never have- can never call his own even as it remains a mere breath away?

Would Lenalee know? Would Komui?

Tears fill his eyes. They trace the curve of his cheeks and drip down onto the crisp sheets of the infirmary bunk, leaking from the corner of his eyes. His chest hurts. Almost as if the clearer his mind gets- the more he’s able to think about Lavi and Kanda and the way they look together- the harder it gets to breathe.  

Is this what love is? Is it wishing that he had never felt it, to begin with, regretting but unwilling to let it go?

Would Miranda know? Would Krory?

He refuses to acknowledge the part of him that begs him to ask Kanda what it feels like to be the recipient of Lavi’s love, of the thing he has coveted for all these years since he first realized he was in love, to begin with. He takes hold of the part of him that weeps and begs for him to ask Lavi why he wasn’t good enough- _even if he already knows the answer, Allen is never good enough for anyone to choose him_ \- and buries it in the same place he has hidden the rest of things that punch the breath out of his lungs to think about. Just another thing to add to the tangled mess of regrets, old pains lingering deep inside him.

(Like being sold like livestock. Like having no name until he stole one from a dead dog. Like calling his father back from the dead and killing him with his own hands. Like watching the man he loves with another and knowing he will spend the rest of his life wishing it had been him.)

The itch in his lungs grows stronger. The ache intensifies. He coughs, his lungs spasming from whatever is irritating them.

It is like he has fallen into the depth of the ocean; sputtering and gasping for oxygen; choking mid-breath; mind blank in confusion and panic. He shoots upright, fingers clutching at the fabric of the shirt he was given to wear and wheezing for air. It hurts to breathe, why can’t he breathe?

He coughs again, this time hacking up something he has only heard of second-hand. It’s velvety, slick with spit and wet as it drops into his open palm.

 _Oh_ , Allen thinks without seeing it, feeling the softness between his fingers.

 _Oh_ , Allen thinks again, once the sky has brightened enough to see what the bloody red of his left-hand holds within it. It smells sweet and floral. It tastes like blood and sorrow on his tongue.  

It makes his stomach turn.

Is this what love is, he wants to ask, to scream into the darkness of the night until he hears an answer. Is this what he’s been waiting for his entire life?

Allen breathes and already knows the answer. He closes his eyes, takes in a shuddering breath and pretends that the silence of the rising dawn doesn't echo in the room like a whispered, “ _Yes_.” 

* * *

 

 

_v._

_“Hey Mana, do you believe in love?” Allen had once asked, hand held in Mana’s larger grasp and peering up at him through messy bangs. The streets had been paved with ice from the season’s frost, leaving the sidewalks dangerously slippery underfoot. He stepped carefully, following Mana’s led through the grey slush._

_“Love?”_

_Allen nodded, cheeks flushed and nose pink from the chilly air._

_“Well,” Mana said, “As a matter of fact I do. Humans wouldn’t be humans if they didn’t feel love.” Allen’s nose scrunched up and Mana seemed to read the question in his face, “There are different types of love, Allen. Neither is stronger than the other- but it’s love all the same.”_

_“Oh, okay.” He said in understanding, even as he understood nothing at all._

_Mana laughed and squeezed Allen’s smaller hand softly, “Don’t you worry, one day you’ll see what I mean.” He smiled gently, “I just hope that when you have your turn at it, love will treat you kindly.” Mana coughed. “At least better than it has treated me.”_

_And from his lips spilled a flower petal, pale as the falling snow, tainted with a bright smear of blood._

* * *

 

 _  
_ _vi_.

Allen hasn’t moved for the past eleven- almost twelve- minutes. He knows this because he’s been counting the seconds, adding them up as they coalesce and starting over when they hit sixty.

_48, 49, 50…_

_Breathe._

It’s something Cross taught him years ago- in the way he always drilled the lessons he thought most important into Allen’s head. With dark eyes and a straight spine. With gloved hands devoid of cigarettes and alcohol.

_(“You stupid brat,” He snapped as Allen gasped for oxygen and curled trembling fingers into his own shirt, loose on his body of skin and bone, right over his heart. “Did you forget how to breathe?” An aggravated sigh and a loud snap of fingers. “Eyes on me. I’m only showing you this once.”)_

There’s a bleak sort of humor to it. The fact that the ‘Great’ General Cross had to teach his apprentice how to calm down from a panic attack by counting the seconds that passed and the way that neither of them ever mentioned it again beyond the weak, “Thanks,” that he rasped out when he could breathe again. When he could pull together the shards of the mask he dropped and became _Allen Walker_ once again.

_58, 59… Twelve minutes._

_Breathe._

_1, 2, 3…_

_Breathe._

Light seeps into the room past the curtains the Head Nurse forgot to close last night.

Golden. Brilliant. Blinding.

He closes his eyes to the light.

_7, 8, 9…_

_Breathe._

His fingers are still curled, fist shut but not tightly enough to destroy what he can still feel in its grasp.

It is soft, a sensation almost feather light, and barely noticeable in the hand that will never feel things as well as his other. It’s soft as silk: and he saw a soft purple- a shade darker than the sky after the sun fully sets- before he clamped his fist closed around it.

His heart races at what he knows awaits him when he unfurls his hand; what will peek up at him from between his fingers when the gaps are wide enough to reveal what he knows is there. Maybe if he tries to wish it away, pretends it doesn't exist, then the petal resting innocently in his palm will go away.

The thought makes him let out a bitter laugh.

He knows better than to think that wishes ever come true. He's known better than that since before he was Allen Walker and just a brat on the streets- when he was still _Red_.

Tragedy will always follow him, with or without the dead clown’s mask he wears.

_13, 14, 15…_

_Breathe._

He opens his eyes.

The petal still sits innocently, beautifully, in the hand that has been marked by God; in his gnarled and scarlet palm.

Allen is alone in the infirmary and it may be in part to the concussion he got during his last mission- but he swears he can hear Cross cursing at him from wherever the hell he ran off to.

“Stupid apprentice,” he imagines his master saying, “What the hell is the matter with you?”

And Allen has heard that tone of voice enough to be aware that if his master was really there, his eyes would be flashing with more pity than amusement; in the way, they tend to do whenever he brings up Mana or used to flinch hard when Cross moved towards him too quickly.

Allen wouldn’t bother pretending he was fine, that this wasn’t his fault. Allen is sure he looks more pathetic than he feels; white hair flat against his skull, pink where his sweat diluted the color of his blood; lips dry, cracked in the middle, and tasting like iron. Whatever lie he would tell anyone else gets caught in his throat, somewhere between his fervent desperation to keep playing pretend and the boy he once was screaming to be let out from inside him.

Eventually, the mask would crumble- in the way Allen will never admit feels like he can finally drag air into his lungs again- and the truth will slip from his lips like something toxic is being bled out from him. Laughable really, the fact that confessing his secrets to a conjured image of Cross will relieve him of his burden; especially since he’s never met someone so acquainted with sin as his master.

If Allen tries hard enough he can picture the room around them too. He can pretend that the infirmary cot he’s in is just another bed in yet another cheap hotel that Master has decided to settle in for the day. He can visualize this fake room around this false Cross where he will confess but refuse to repent.

There would be a half-full wine glass in Cross’s hand and two empty bottles on the nearby table. Timcanpy would be fluttering on the air beside his head and his tail would be swaying from side to side like that of a curious feline. Smoke would rise from lit cigarettes like incense burning from censers to remember the dead.

Allen would admit the truth to Cross like a sinner does in church, in a muted whisper- voice a mix of Mana’s and Red’s and Allen’s; clasping his hands on his lap in a caricature of prayer.

“I messed up, Master. I messed up and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Cross wouldn’t say a thing. His eyes would not leave Allen’s.

He’d raise a cigarette to his lips and inhale the toxic smoke deeply, steadily- breathing it into his being until it was a part of him that would dissipate into the air the moment he exhaled. He’d give the alcohol in his glass a gentle swirl, crimson liquid sloshing around the inside of crystal, before pressing the glass to his lips and languidly swallowing it down.

But he wouldn't laugh- he never did when it mattered.

“I’ve fallen in love, Master,” The words would slide off his tongue like barbed wire, slicing his mouth open, catching on his teeth, drawing blood from his throat, “I fucked up and fell in love.”

“ _Love is not a mistake, Allen,_ ” He knows Mana would say- but Mana has been dead for years now and sometimes thinking about what he would tell Allen if he was still alive makes Allen feel like he’s sullying his memory. At least when he imagines Cross telling him something, it doesn’t make nausea curl in his stomach like it does when he puts words in his dead father’s mouth.

“You’re an idiot,” Cross would comment mildly instead of feeding him lies to make him feel better. “Although, besides you being one, I don’t see what the problem is.”

“The person I love- loves someone else.” Allen would say quietly instead of fighting over the insult. His voice would be faint- like the rustling of the trees outside the closed window, like the whisper of the sheets as he brings his knees up to his chest.

Cross would glance at Allen’s cupped hands, see the petal resting between his palms and something in his face would _twist_. He would look away before he asks, “Who is it?”

And in the empty infirmary, Allen presses a shaking hand to his sternum and tries his best to not think of a brilliant green eye; a laugh like the warmth of a home he’s never had, or the way Lavi kisses Kanda like he’s a drowning man breathing air for the first time.

“Someone that will never be mine.” Allen murmurs to the specter of his master and lets the petal slip out from his hand, fluttering to the stone of the infirmary floor. 

* * *

 

 

_vii._

Allen is released from the infirmary the next afternoon. Bandages are wrapped around his head, nearly as white as the hair he's freshly washed, and he's not fully paying attention to his surroundings as he walks. His mind is blank. The corridors pass by in a blur of dulled gray as his eyes don’t lift away from the stone beneath his feet.

Timcanpy swoops down from above him, darting down to fly around his face, nearly smacking him in the face with golden wings. He blinks and gently swats the golem away, “What’s gotten into you, Tim?”

The golem simply nudges Allen’s cheek and he turns his head to glance at what Tim wants him to see. There is a figure moving closer from down the hall. Their steps are long and unhurried, the pace stuttering for a brief moment as they catch sight of him. By then, Allen’s muscles have frozen in place as the figure picks up their pace and hastily draws nearer.

And for a moment, his lips curl into an instinctual smile that the sight of Lavi- _the mere thought of him-_ brings to his face. But then, he draws in a breath and feels a pressure in his chest, a familiar pain. It’s enough for Allen to remember just why the phantom taste of blood lingers on his tongue.

“Heya Allen,” Lavi says, “I heard that ya got hurt in your last mission. How ya feeling, buddy?”

Allen evens out his smile, smoothing it flat against the mask he dons before the man that accidentally broke his heart and does what he does best. Pretend.

“Like I got smashed through a building,” he says with a sheepish laugh, tracing the white bandages with his fingers carefully, “But I’m feeling better now than when I first got back.”

Lavi whistles, brows raising in disbelief, “It’s hard to remember that you’re actually pretty sturdy until somethin’ like this happens. So ya got thrown through a building then?”

“I can’t actually remember much about the actual mission,” Allen admits, “But based on what Tim managed to record, it was more like three buildings.”

“What!? Three? I know that Parasite types heal super quick and all,” Lavi says, as Allen drinks in the unruly strands of scarlet hair sweeping across a pale face; the brilliant green of a single eye staring at him in concern. “But are ya sure ya should be walkin’ around right now?”

Usually, Lavi’s attention would make something warm bubble in his stomach; something soft and fizzy that reminds Allen of the crackling of fireplaces and the heat they exude. But right now, he can’t stand to be under the scrutiny of that vibrant eye.

His breath catches and the act of drawing in air seems to rattle something inside his chest. The smile wobbles on his face for a second before he composes himself.

Allen cannot stand to look at Lavi knowing just how adoration melts the emerald of his gaze into something akin to the color of leafy tree canopies stretched out to the azure sky. Knowing that after spending this long dreaming, pining, fearing; his worst fears have come true and it will never be him that Lavi pulls close in darkened rooms to whisper, ‘ _I love you, don’t cha know_?’ even as the words echo in the cavernous walls of what should be abandoned hallways.

“Don’t worry about me,” Allen says. Lavi casts a pointed glance at the bandages around Allen’s head with a raised brow. “The Head Nurse cleared me from the infirmary and you know how she is, I wouldn’t be walking around if she hadn’t said it was fine.”

Not that she would have let him go if she had seen the petal that had bubbled up from his lips as twilight danced outside the window. It’s no secret what causes the disease that has rooted itself in Allen’s lungs almost overnight. It’s no secret just exactly it is that has caused this illness to begin consuming him from the inside out.

Lavi doesn’t seem very convinced, “Just get some rest won’t ya? It’ll do no one any good if ya collapse cause ya don’t take care of yourself.”

“Yeah, I know,” Allen allows his smile to shift into something more genuine; and despite how much it makes an ache grow in his lungs, meets Lavi’s eye directly with his own, “I’m going to head back to my room now. Thanks for worrying. ”

“Take care Allen,” Lavi says after a pause, something flashing in his eye fast enough that Allen can’t make out what it is. “See ya later.”

“See you later,” Allen murmurs, shifting so that he’s out of Lavi’s way before taking a rattling breath and walking away.

It takes a moment before he hears another set of footsteps doing the same.  

* * *

 

_viii._

Eventually, his injury heals and the bandages come off. The Head Nurse lectures him for a few minutes before she kicks him out of the infirmary with an order of getting rest and being careful in the next mission he goes out on. Tim flies beside him as he makes his way to the cafeteria, swishing his tail in the air from side to side.

He eats an enormous lunch on his own, saying nothing in the silence that wraps itself around him but for an earnest thanks to Jerry before he shovels all of the deliciously cooked meal down his throat. Despite the somewhat somber mood, he finds himself in more often than not nowadays- as a result of the pain of a broken heart- Allen cannot bring himself to neglect to eat because of it.

(He can still remember a time when he could count the ribs at his sides, how he dragged the edges of his fingertips along the protruding bone and felt his belly burn with hunger so fierce, he feared he was being consumed from within.)

He does miss the cacophony of words belonging to his friends though. The rise and fall of their mingled voices dragging him out from his thoughts when he delved too deep while in their company. It’s been a while since he hasn’t been alone in the cafeteria.

Lenalee has been off on missions; Miranda is wrapping up her training with General Klaud; Krory is doing the same with General Sokalo. He's been avoiding Lavi, sometimes not so subtly- he's dreading the moment Lavi manages to corner him to ask why- and since he usually has nothing to do with Kanda besides the occasional spar, it's not a rare thing for weeks to pass before they seek each other out.

Oddly enough, he hasn‘t run into either of them outside of his accidental encounter with Lavi earlier this week. He doesn't know whether to be relieved or anxious for the other shoe to drop. Lavi isn't an idiot, quite the opposite and Allen doesn't want to think about what being confronted by him will do to the flowers inside him.

True, Allen has been able to visit the members of the Science Division, but they’re still looking into what makes the properties of Innocence able to kill Akuma when nothing else does.

Although, Allen can’t be too sure that’s what they’re actually doing since working under Komui always moves things off track whether it’s planned to or not.

Recently, all his time has been spent at the library, putting to use the skills Krory had helped him polish and develop. Without the older Exorcist, Allen’s understanding of reading and writing would have stayed stagnant, the same as when Mana could bid himself to remember teaching it to Allen- or when Cross forced him to memorize the shape of words so that he could recognize them if he ever stumbled upon them by chance.

It’s odd to do research on his own instead of asking Bookman or Lavi for information about the subject he’s interested in. But considering that he’s busy looking into a disease that even poor orphan boys recognize, perhaps asking two of the brightest men Allen has ever met- one of which is the reason Allen’s lungs are riddled with root systems, to begin with- isn’t such a good idea if he wants to keep his affliction private.

He hefts the book he had found shortly after his first release from the medical wing, shortly after that encounter with Lavi in the hallway, open. He runs his fingers across the yellowed pages and lets a bitter smile tug at his lips as he traces the dark words printed in ink upon the page with his eyes.

 _“The Flower Plague,”_ the book reads, _“the disease born of unrequited love. Otherwise referred to as ‘Hanahaki’, as it was first called in the remote lands of Japan by the 14th-century scholars who documented one of the earliest cases of the disease. Since then, the medical phenomena has been seen all across the world. Those afflicted with the Flower Plague express the same symptoms: shortness of breath; tightness in the chest; until the patient expels what gives the Flower Plague its name, plant matter- petals, leaves, flowers- from their lungs._

 _“There seems to be no specific type of person it ails, although the commonalities are enough to determine the likely cause of the disease_ -” Here the page is creased, the edges curled from having been held in Allen’s tight grip, “ **_-Love_ **.”

 _“Further studies suggest that the illness may be triggered by various kinds of ‘love’ and does not require any sense of romantic attachment. Any form of ‘love’ will do; whether it is familial, romantic, or platonic.”_ The next words are underlined with pencil, a shaky marking of graphite darkening the space beneath the lines. _“The determined catalyst for Hanahaki Disease is for the ‘'love’ of the patient to be spurned or rejected- whether intentional or not._

_“What makes it possible for flowers to grow inside a human being is unknown. All that is certain is that once the disease takes root, there is little that can be done. Progression of the root systems varies from patient to patient, although certain triggers can cause an increase in the spread of damaged tissue. There are no current ways to treat the disease._

_While some may overcome the grief of their ‘love’ and reach full recovery, most patients of the Flower Plague succumb to their ailment- eventually choking on the flowers growing in their lungs. Something of which will lead to severe oxygen deprivation- and in the end,_ **_death_ ** _.”_

The final word is circled, and below it, tucked into the wide creases of the Medical Encyclopedia like a bookmark is a single flower petal, soft and violet, stained with the faintest trace of blood. 

* * *

 

  
_ix._

Allen Walker is eighteen years old.

_(He is dying. He is in love.)_

There is a budding tangle of roots and thorns and stems in his chest that grows worse with every day that passes by. The only reason Allen still has yet to cough up whole flowers- _not petals, those continue to slip from his lips like clockwork every time Lavi crosses his mind-_ is because the bodies of Parasite-type Innocence wielders recover fast enough that the disease can’t advance fast enough to kill him quite yet.

**_Yet._ **

It is going to kill him. Despite the fact that it hasn’t done as much damage to him as it should have; eventually, there will come the day in which the damage disease will wreck inside him cannot heal fast enough to hold back the degeneration of his health.

He is in love. _(He is dying.)_

He is dying. _(He is in love.)_

No matter the order, in the end, the truth remains the same- Allen Walker is dying, and it is his love that is killing him. 

* * *

 

  
_x._

By now, it has been two weeks since he has had a proper conversation with Lavi. Something that even the busiest of his friends have noticed and commented on. Even Kanda mentions it when they brush past each other in the hallway earlier that week:

Allen is about to head out on another mission, the second since his illness began- trying to forget the burn in his lungs or the way his love for Lavi makes him ache every time he tries to breathe; when Kanda exits a nearby training room and zeroes in on him.

“ _Moyashi_ ,” he grits out with a fierce glower, stomping over to him with the sweat from his newly finished work-out glistening on his skin.

“Fix your problem with the idiot rabbit instead of just running away, you damn coward. I don’t give a shit about what the hell has you acting like a scared little girl and I don’t care.” He jabs a finger at Allen accusingly. “But the damn idiot has been more annoying than usual and it’s your fucking fault! He won’t stop bitching about ‘ _oh do you think I accidentally offended Allen somehow?_ ’ or ‘ Allen’s been avoiding me and I can’t figure out why’’, the swordsman mimics in a mockingly high-pitched voice.

“Do you _think_ I want to hear that kind of bullshit every time the idiot rabbit follows me around!?” Kanda doesn’t give Allen a chance to interject before answering his own question. “No, I fucking don’t! So suck it up, get your shit together and stop running away from your problems, you stupid _Moyashi_.”

Then, he stomps away, turning his back on Allen and leaving him gaping at the quickly vanishing swordsman in shock. He is far too shocked, actually, for any sort of flower petal to bubble up from his lips at seeing Kanda, or at having _Kanda_ , of all people, confront him about his issues with Lavi. Instead, Allen bursts into mildly hysterical laughter, having to tuck himself into a corner until he no longer felt like alternating between laughing and crying.

His answers to the inquiries his friends make vary from person to person.

From carefully switching the subject to something that makes his lungs hurt less when Miranda stares at him with wet eyes and an admission that she’s scared that the distance might make Lavi and him drift apart. To the way he reassures Lenalee that no, he’s not mad at Lavi, and again no, Lavi hasn’t done anything wrong, and yes, he’s aware that he’s being an idiot by not talking about what’s wrong- but he has no intention of no longer being Lavi’s friend just because he’s going through a pre-midlife crisis.

He cannot bear to let anyone know what’s wrong with him. The thought of it makes panic stir inside him like something monstrous is snapping awake; gnashing teeth, swinging claws, and a heart that tells him that the only way to go on is to hide it before anyone can see his vulnerability.

He’s scared of what the others will tell him.

He’s scared of what Lavi will think.

So he does what Allen Walker does best. He continues on. He trudges on with his lungs full of blooming flowers and his mouth curled into a pleasant smile and pretends that he’s not dying through it all. 

* * *

 

_xi._

Once upon a time, in a town that time itself rejected, Allen Walker met the Bookman and his successor for the first time. It was after Lenalee had been captured and injured; after Miranda activated her Innocence to save them from an enemy they hadn’t known existed until then. After the girl with grey skin, stigmata carved into her forehead, and brilliant golden eyes pulled him close until the beating of her heart, _her_ _human heart_ , echoed alongside that of his own.

Humans helping Akuma. Akuma obeying humans.

No, not humans. _Noah._

Noah. But with a heart that beats the same way a human’s does.

“Who are the Noah family?” Allen whispered, sleep falling away from him with every second that passed and questions flooding his mind before he even had the chance to open his eyes. “What do they want?”

“Well those are the winning questions aren’t they?”

He opened his eyes, one to darkness so inky that not even light could be seen; the other, to Komui, slumbering at the right side of his bed and a stranger flipping through the pages of a thick book. The stranger’s eye skimmed through the pages as if the- Allen squinted at the cover- _‘Modern Medical Dictionary’_ was nothing more than a children’s story. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe. Not even Mana had read that fast on his good days.

For the briefest of seconds, the vibrant red hair made Allen wonder if, for some reason, Cross had come to lecture him on how much of an idiot apprentice he was for ending in the hospital on his second mission. The moment passed as another page was turned.

This man looked nothing like his Master.

He had only one eye, the other covered by a patch that matched the one Allen could feel pulling at his own face. His gaze was calculative, his single eye an emerald green that was just as vivid as the stone, flitting up from the page spread under his hands to meet Allen’s bewildered gaze. Then, in the blink of an eye, the look in the man’s eye shifted, filled with a light of humor and friendliness rather than intelligence and detachment.

A grin spread across his face. “Those are the same questions this guy here-” he jabbed a thumb at the sleeping Komui, “-was asking just ‘fore he fell asleep. If ya really want to know I can tell ya, but you’d have to answer two of my questions in exchange.”

Allen blinked and sat up on the bed, surveying the damage to his body even as he considered the stranger’s proposal. The man couldn’t be anyone bad right? Komui wouldn’t let anyone in if he thought that they might put Allen’s life at risk. But the world was dark through Allen’s left eye, he couldn’t see if the man was an Akuma or not. The lack of awareness, of the knowledge he’d always had readily available at his fingertips jolted a part of him that hadn’t stirred in years, paranoia, dread, and a fear of-

“Wow,” the man said, propping his chin on the palm of his hand and cutting into Allen’s thoughts, “You’re really givin’ this some thought aren't cha?” He laughed, “Never heard of making a deal before?”

Allen let his mouth curl into a placid smile, making sure none of his tension was visible. “I’m not in the habit of making deals with strangers,” he lied and shrugged, “Sorry.”

The man paused for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Oh man, you should have said something earlier if that was the issue,” he continued breathlessly and stood up from his chair in an unexpected move that had Allen nearly activating his Innocence, damaged as it was.

He twirled dramatically, bright orange scarf trailing behind him before he raised two fingers to his brow in a playful salute, a boyish grin stretched over his face. “My name is Lavi. Nice to meet cha, Allen Walker.”

Komui stirred, blearily blinking at the two of them before groaning and dragging his fingers through his hair. “Ugh, Lavi what are you doing?”

“Nothing much, just introducing myself to the famous, _Destroyer of Time.”_

The tension inside Allen dissipated almost immediately at the sound of Komui’s voice and he instinctively winced at the ominous epithet. “Just call me Allen, please.”

“Sure, sure. I’m sure Yuu wouldn’t mind if I borrow his nickname for you.” Lavi waggled his eyebrows at the confusion on his face but didn't elaborate further. “Now how about that deal?”

An amused smile tugged at Allen’s lips. “You want two questions in exchange? _Only_ _two_ , right?” Lavi nodded brightly and Allen sighed, “Fine sure. It's a deal.”

Lavi cleared his throat and the lighthearted glint in his eye hardened into something more somber. Komui who had been following the conversation with brows raised over sleepy eyes; yawning but not doing anything but resting his chin on his arms and watching the two of them interact- perked up in interest.

“The name Noah is mentioned all throughout history but only through rumors. It’s the name of a family that tends to only make an appearance during important events in history but that is never directly named in any history books. They disappear when things die down and leave little trace of who they are. One thing that is known about the Noah is this,” Lavi brought up a single finger, the gesture making it known that the following details were important, “The fact that they showed up now means that the Millenium Earl is making his move.”

“But what do they want?” Allen asked, mind reeling from the flood of information, “Why would they help the Earl if they're human too?”

“It’s because they’re helping him that we can guess that their goal is the same as the Earl’s.” Allen flinched _hard._ Lavi seemed to notice, not stopping in his words but finishing his train of thought with a softer voice. “They want to bring about the end of humanity. They don’t seem to care whether they’re human themselves or not.”

“That’s…” Allen began, voice faint and feeling his stomach turn at the implications.

“It’s horrible, isn’t it?” Komui spoke up then, seeming to understand the reason behind Allen’s difficulty in vocalizing his thoughts. He looked more awake than before Lavi began speaking, thought there was a line of dried drool on his chin. “To think that humans would turn against their own like that and help the Earl. If humans can be swayed to his cause like the Noah were then that makes our mission to stop the Earl all the more important.”

After that, the room fell silent.

Allen turned his head to look out the wide window at his bedside and counted the breaths he took until it stopped feeling like he was on the verge of being sick. Outside, flakes of snow fell, clumping together on the windowsill and forming an undisturbed line of white.

“Oh!” Lavi exclaimed, breaking the tense atmosphere and pulling a slightly wrinkled envelope from his coat pocket. “I almost forgot. Some lady wanted me to give this to you,” he extended the letter towards Allen, who took it with careful hands, asking if Lavi had caught her name. The redhead shrugged. “I think her name was Miranda or something?”

Allen’s eye jerked back to the letter with an eager glint. Pushing away the grimness that the earlier revelations had caused and focusing on the envelope instead. Tearing it open at the seam, Allen pulled out the papers inside and smiled at the slant of Miranda’s handwriting.

The subject of the questions owed wasn’t broached again.

(Not until Allen is coughing up entire flowers and the debt that is owed is finally paid in full.) 

* * *

 

 

_xii._

There is a conflict of beliefs when it comes to Allen and the boy he used to be.

Before meeting the Noah,  Allen has never hated any human enough to find himself scared of just what he might do if his control slips away from him- has never feared them in a way that sends his heart into overdrive. He has disliked some people sure, but the rage that festers within him at Road’s actions- _at the cry for help from the soul trapped in a metal skeleton, at the explosion that wipes away any trace of the soul he had been too late to save-_ tips more towards hatred than anything Allen has felt before.

It is the opposite for Red.

Back when he was Red there was nothing that he feared and loathed as much as humanity.

Red, the boy starved and shunned by humans his entire life. Red, the boy with no name and no home and no family to care. Red, the boy who has always hated humanity, who has feared it in the same breath, since the moment he was aware enough to do so and is nothing more than hatred and rage and loneliness trapped in human skin.

How could he be anything else? How could he dare feel anything but fear and rage- when the first thing that he remembers is that of clutching at his immobile arm, dirt under his fingernails, smeared across his cheeks and a rope tied around his throat as he was sold off in an auction.

The circus bought him only because they needed an extra pair of hands- nothing more, nothing less- and he since he could only use one of them, it meant that he was sold for half the price.

It was humans that sold him. Humans that bought him. Humans that put him to work.

And for a long time, as he slaved away in the circus, skittering from tent to tent with his head ducked down and his heart trembling in his throat; this knowledge, this self-obtained understanding of humanity and the terror that came with it was all he truly knew.

It was Mana that saved him. Mana that redeemed humanity in his eyes.

But then, Mana died and it was love that killed him- _white poppies falling from his lips until the day he could no longer breathe_ , _beautiful pale petals stained with red._

And it was him, Allen Walker, the boy who was Red no longer, with his wretched grief and useless hand and aching heart that called out to him; who brought Mana back from the dead because he was still so scared of humanity that the thought of facing it all alone make him tremble down to his soul in terror.

Even after then, after he stowed away that terror in light of the new demons that had been made known to him, a small kernel of his old fear lingered within him- hidden by the masks he wore, until the appearance of the girl, the one who was much more than a girl yet human all the same, jerked it back to the surface once more.

It is here that Allen fears that Red might bleed into the persona he has carefully put together over the years. Allen Walker has grown to love both Akuma and human beings; Red has always hated humans, with the exception of the man he grew to call his father, as well as the brand of monster he had turned him into.

Allen fears that the Noah will be the catalyst to tip him into hating human beings once more. He fears that once he hits that point then clawing his way back out will leave him with more pieces left behind than put together.

There is a dissonance between Allen and the person he used to be, a disconnect that thrives on the opposite aspects of the personality and aspirations that lives inside him. He cannot bring himself to bridge the gap between the two because he fears what will become of him if he dares try. He’s scared that in doing so he might crack the mask he has worked so hard to maintain and something unknown will swell forward to fill in the holes left behind.

Allen Walker is everything Red isn’t, everything he couldn’t be.

Allen doesn’t look at the world as if everyone in it is out for his blood, he doesn’t curl his right hand around a crippled left and flinch when anyone comes too close. He doesn’t bat an eye when insults rain down on him. He doesn’t spit curses as easy as breathing and he doesn’t clip his words short in the way only street urchins do.

Allen is nothing like Red was. He is patient, slow to anger, careful with his words. Allen, in a way, is much better than Red had ever been. He will find people to care for him because he is kind, he is gentle, he is willing to give up everything so he can save everyone.

Sometimes he wonders just how much he will have to give up to give everyone a happy ending; and whether or not he will have enough to give before the flowers in his chest kill him.

 

_xiii._

Sometimes when he lies awake at night- his hand stretched out toward an empty ceiling and eyes tracing the edges of the glowing crystal embedded in his gnarled flesh- Allen wonders how Innocence chooses its wielders. He wonders what makes certain orphan boys more special than others, what separates Exorcists from the faceless masses they're sworn to protect.

It’s these kinds of thoughts that he chooses to dwell on instead of the alternatives- _Lavi, flowers, the taste of blood on his tongue; nightmares, the Noah, being too slow to save anyone at all-_ knowing that sleep will forsake him regardless of where his thoughts linger.

Allen isn’t sure how long it will take for someone to realize what’s wrong with him is more than just worry for the growing boldness of the Noah. How it is something beyond the mission load that grows thicker no matter how many of them he completes on his own.

He knows it’s only a matter of time until he gives a wrong answer; until he stumbles over the lies he keeps telling others- and himself- and is caught in the web he has woven so intricately.

Early on, in the first months after travelling with Mana, he had dreams of opening his eyes only to find that Mana was gone. He dreamt that he’d wake with his heart racing in his chest, feeling it sink down to his feet as he looked around for his father- only to find that Mana was nothing more but a dream. It would feel as if his belly had been hollowed out with a rusty spoon and left empty- filled only with a bloody terror that surpassed any other fear he felt.

(Out of anything, even his fear of humanity and what they are capable of, Allen Walker fears being alone most of all.)

In these dreams, Allen would look for Mana, treading across the slush of dirtied snow and screaming, _begging_ , for him to come back. At some point he would give up. Would curl up a small ball in the snow, alone, cold, and weeping. His heart aching. The loneliness so overwhelming he could hardly breathe.

Then he would wake up.

Now that he's older, Allen has lived longer without Mana at his side than beside him. The loss of his father no longer reverberates in every cell of his body, echoing the words- _all alone, all alone, all alone_ inside his bones _._ Instead, he dons the scar on his face like it is Mana’s final farewell to him; like it will stop the loneliness from creeping through his veins like a disease- like the root systems already spreading in his lungs.

Back then, his nightmares were straight forward; unlike the ones that now bubble up from behind his eyelids every time he shuts his eyes with the intention to sleep. Now, his dreams are full of gray-skinned humans, bloody crosses carved into their foreheads, and flower petals falling from the sky instead of ash as an Akuma destroys itself in front of him.

(He wakes up to the sound of their souls _screaming_ for him to save them.)

Now his dreams are filled with the forest green of Lavi’s eye; with the chiming sound of his laughter; with the heavy scent of wildflowers around them crawling into his mouth, imprinting itself into his tongue, forcing its way down his throat until he’s almost choking on the smell, on the flowers, on everything all at once.

He doesn’t fall back asleep on those nights. Instead, he lies awake, aching with the love that has settled itself so deeply inside him. Instead, he gasps for breath, heaving shoulders, screaming lungs, dripping eyes. Instead, flowers bloom in his chest, stems catch in his esophagus, leaves scratch at his lungs; and Allen coughs and coughs until one petal turns into an entire bundle of blossoms and he can’t do anything but choke in the loneliness of the night.

He’s tired of things being so difficult. He’s tired of the lies he keeps feeding his friends just so they overlook the fact that nothing quite hurts as bad as trying to breathe when Lavi is nearby. At trying to smile when his heart wants to be heard screaming through the layers of his muscles and nerves and skin.

The purple crescents growing darker and darker under his eyes with every passing day are much harder to hide than the things he coughs up. It’s hard to sleep with the flowers sprouting in his lungs. It’s hard to sleep with the things he keeps seeing behind his eyelids.

It’s so damn _hard._ Sleepless nights aren’t anything new to him, but even he can only push through his exhaustion so many times before he must collapse. He wonders just how soon that collapse is from now, and curls into a small ball as flowers force themselves up from between his lips.

“I won’t stop walking, Mana,” he wants to say, to promise his dead father once more. More to remind himself than anything else. But in the solitude of his bedroom, with blood dripping from his mouth, frothy and mixed with spit and hyacinths; Allen Walker can’t do anything else but choke. 

* * *

 

 

_xiv._

“Damn, _Menino,_ ” Tyki whistles, eyeing the dark circles under Allen’s eyes as he brings a cigarette to his mouth. “You look like hell.”

“What a lovely compliment. Be careful there, or I might just swoon into your arms.” Allen drawls, sarcasm thick in his voice. “How did you know that’s what I’ve always wanted to hear?”

Tyki smirks, brows raising up over the rim of his glasses. “It probably won’t come as a shock to hear, but I’m pretty popular with the ladies-” He pauses, before adding with a shrug, “-and the gentlemen too, of course. A lot of people want to get a piece of-” the vagrant gestures at his body with a dramatic twist of his wrist,”- _this.”_

Momo and Crack scoff loudly in unison. In a movement so synchronized it appears almost choreographed, they both extend a hand and whack Tyki over the back of his head. Eeze, who is sitting on one of the wooden crates nearby, drags his down the top edge of his face mask and sticks his tongue out at Tyki.

He raises a thumb and quickly flips it upside down. “Boo, that was lame.”

Allen laughs, remembering the shy and polite kid Eeze had been only a few years ago. He would say that Tyki is a bad influence but Momo and Crack are honestly just as bad as he is. Allen himself has taught the kid his share of questionable things from his time as street-rat, including, but not limited to: how to cheat at poker, how to pick both pockets and locks, and how to weave the right combination of words and body language in a way to benefit himself.

“Seriously though kid,” Momo says seriously, mouth turned downward in concern, “We all know Tyki is an asshole, but he’s not lying. Ya _do_ look like you’re dead on your feet.”

That's probably a result of the sleepless nights, Allen thinks.

He’s been running himself ragged, jumping from mission to mission just to avoid being at Headquarters for too long- where he might run into Lavi at any moment. It’s not the healthiest way of coping but then again, Allen hasn’t really ever learned how to cope with any of his problems. Even now, on his days he has free, he spends his time away from the Order; choosing instead to mingle with Tyki and his band of jolly vagrants.

Not that spending time with them is any bother. They all met each other nearly three years ago, when Mono, Crack, and Tyki cheated their way through a poker match with the newly-turned Exorcist, Krory; and Allen used his skill in poker to put them in their place.

After then, Allen honestly didn’t expect to run into them again. But as his luck would have it, he stumbled upon Tyki on the way to a solo mission only months later:

_“Well, well, if it isn’t the cheating boy.” Allen blinked out of his stupor, tilting his head back to look at the person speaking to him. It was the same man as from that time with Krory and Lavi; with the same stubble, the same messy hair, and the same thick glasses obscuring his eyes. This time though, he was without his partners in crime._

_“Ah, hello there.” Allen greeted kindly and cheerfully, “How have you been? Still cheating people out of their belongings?”_

_“Yes, I am.” The man said, trying to keep his voice somber but not doing a very good job. “It’s a hard job but someone has to do it.”_

_Allen’s lips twitched upward. “Oh wow, what a true hero.”_

_“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m a true servant of the people,” The man pulled out a deck of cards, tied together with twine, from a pocket of his pants. “Also, on the subject of cheating people out of their belongings, I demand a rematch.”_

_“Losing terribly last time doesn’t put you off at all?”_

_“I like a good challenge. Besides, I’m sure I’ll be able to cheat better than you this time.”_

_That startled a laugh out of Allen. “You’re not the first person to say that and you won’t be the last.” He managed to say after a catching his breath._

_“I’m sure I can convince you otherwise,” the man drawled and tossed the deck up before catching it. He shot Allen a cocky smirk. “Unless you’re scared that I’ll beat you at your own game.”_

_“The thing is, no one has quite been able to put their money where their mouth is.” Allen batted his eyelashes innocently. “Are you sure you still want to give it a shot? Chances are that you’ll lose. I swear I’ll try no to think less of you if you change your mind now.”_

_The man threw himself on the seat across from Allen, somehow not bumping him with his long limbs. The train station was nearly empty. The next train wasn’t due until an hour or two, so Allen had plenty of time to burn._

_Even though he knew he would win._

_The man extended the deck of cards out to him._

_“I’m ready when you are,” He purred and with a grin, Allen took the cards._

_“What are we throwing into the pot?”_

_The man laughed, “How about a name to go with the face?”_

_“A name huh?” Nothing that would hurt him to give out. Still, it won’t do to let his opponent win just for the sake of proper introductions. “I hope you’re ready to tell me yours.”_

_The man scoffed. “You think I can't win your name in a game of cards?”_

_Allen grinned- taunting and wicked. “I know you can't.” He shuffled the deck of hands with a flourish and tilted his head coyly, “But… you are welcome to try and prove me wrong.”_

_By the time it was time for the train to pull into the station, Allen had won every game they had played._

_And eventually, when they started to meet outside of mere coincidence, Allen made a new friend; his unrelenting foe, the traveling vagabond, Tyki Mikk._

They’ve been friends for years now, just as long as he’s been friends with the other Exorcists; and just like them, Allen doesn’t know how to phrase the words, “I’m in love. I’m dying,” without it feeling like there’s a weight in his heart.

“Oi, kid,” Crack says, tugging Allen away from his thoughts and staring at him oddly, “So what’s really goin’ on with ya? Is someone givin’ ya trouble?” The comment catches Eezee's attention. His dirty blond hair curls around his ears and brushes his cheek as he perks his head up in Crack’s direction, before turning to look at Allen.

“Someone’s giving you trouble?”

“No, that’s not-”

“What!? Someone is giving you trouble, _Menino_?” Tyki squawks, grabbing Allen by the shoulders and jerking him near, scanning him for any injuries. He spasms in surprise, a startled sound escaping him. Tyki’s fingers grip Allen’s chin and turn his head from side to side, tilting his face upward to peer intently for any sign that someone is doing him harm.

This close, Allen can see eyes that are usually hidden behind the thick lenses of his glasses. He can count each individual eyelash sweeping downward in inky lines. The warmth of Tyki’s breath brushes his lips and Allen freezes. His attention snaps away from the long lashes framing the earthy brown of Tyki’s eyes, to the space between their faces, only a few inches apart.

Behind them, Eeze makes a loud gagging noise. “Eww, come on get a room you two!”

Allen blinks. Tyki blinks back. They both take note of the distance between them and the lack thereof before the situation registers. Allen moves faster than Tyki in his reaction. Firmly planting his right hand on Tyki’s face, widening his stance, and _shoving_ him away as hard as he can; which, being an Exorcist of Parasitic Innocence, is _quite_ far.

Tyki flies back with a panicked screech and a flail of his arms. He collides with the trash cans lining the outside of the nearby alley in a loud _boom_ , knocking them over and tumbling back with them. He lands on his ass, glasses skewed and displaying the dark eyes- wide and shocked-  behind the lenses.

“Holy shit,” Momo breathes, Crack echoing his words only seconds later.

“Oh my God! He just-” Eeze bursts into laughter, clutching at his stomach as he bends over in fits of uncontrollable snorting and mad cackling. He chokes on his giggles, tears streaming down his cheeks and soaking into the fabric of his mask. “He just sent Tyki _flying_.”

Said man scowls and glares at his laughing friends.

“ _Are you okay Tyki_?” He asks in a mockingly high pitched voice, answering his own question with a heated glower and a pointed jab at the others, “Yes, I think I am. **Thank you for asking, Tyki.** You’re the only one that bothered.”

Allen stares at the crooked slant of Tyki’s glasses, the handprint already reddening on his face, the peel of a banana drooping sadly on his shoulder. And he throws his head back in laughter, shaking with the force of it- not seeing the victorious look Tyki shoots the others at the sight of his genuine smile or how the lines of worry in everyone's faces softens, just for a moment. 

* * *

 

 

_xv._

Surprisingly, it’s Krory that notices it first.

They’re on their way back from a mission, a comfortable silence between them as the train speeds down the rails. The sun is lazily dipping below the line of the horizon. The sky looks like it’s been set on fire. Colors creep out from the edge of the skyline, the light of the setting sun staining the wispy clouds stretching across darkened blue until the entirety of the western sky is painted in a shifting mix of golden yellow, soft tangerine, and a shade of scarlet that can’t help but remind Allen of Lavi’s hair.

The thought, however brief, makes his lungs tighten in his chest. He forces the flowers down through sheer willpower.

“Allen,” Krory holds a copy of a book that Allen is pretty sure he’s seen Miranda reading before. It looks worn but well-cared for. It rests- open to one of the many pages- in Krory’s gloved hands. “You’re in love with him aren’t you?” He comments, voice steady and certain, knowingly peering at him from the top of his reading glasses.

Allen’s fingers spasm around the cards he absentmindedly shuffled as he stared out the window, losing his grip on them and having them scatter across the compartment floor. He jerks his head to stare at Krory; an excuse already bubbling up on his lips, an innocent inquiry of who _he_ could be and why Krory would assume something so bold.

The older Exorcist sighs, snapping his book shut without bothering to mark what page he is on. He looks like a proper adult instead of the man Allen knows still gets cheated trying to buy things on his own; despite it having to be over three years since he left his grandfather’s castle. He’s matured under General Sokalo’s guidance, although he retains the kindness and soft-heart that made Allen grow so close to him to begin with.

It is this kindness, Allen is sure, that brought on this conversation. Krory may be naive at times, but at his core, he seems to know just the right things to cut straight into the heart of the issue.

And the issue here is that somehow, in his blatant avoidance of the younger Bookman, Krory arrived at the truth. At the fact that Allen Walker is in love and doesn’t know what do but hide away from the cause; doesn’t know what to do besides cower behind the mask he dons so often until maybe one day it all stops being too much.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Krory says gently, gaze soft but unwavering from his own. Maybe if it hadn’t been Krory who tells him those words, then Allen wouldn’t have dared to crumble into himself the way he does. But it is Krory, and so the defensive set to his shoulders melts away until he visibly wilts in his seat. He curls his fingers around the edge of the train seat, knuckles white and brown cushion wrinkling under his touch.

“How did you know?” He dares ask, head bowed and vacantly staring at the scattered deck of cards on the light brown carpet underfoot.

“The way you look at him is the same way I looked Eliade.”

Petals catch in the lining of Allen’s throat. His breath hitches and he curls a bit into himself. “I'm that obvious, huh?” He mutters with a cynical smile, “I should have known that I wasn't fooling anyone.”

Krory tilts his head, small frown working at his mouth. “It's quite the opposite actually. The only reason I pierced it together is that I've seen how your interactions with Lavi have changed over the years, and hearing how you’re avoiding him now when I can see how torn you are over seeing him- reminds me of how I first acted when I learned I was in love.”

Allen heaves a weary sigh, rattling lungs trembling in his ribcage; the taste of blood on his tongue from the petals he doesn’t allow himself to cough up in front of Krory. Krory doesn’t deserve to see Allen choking, clawing at his chest as if it will make the flowers climbing up his throat stop shredding him into pieces every time they come up.

“Yeah,” he finally says, turning his head to glance out the window as he replies, “I love him.”

“But you don’t want to.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to.”  He smiles bitterly, sadly, mournfully, “It’s just that he’s in love with Kanda and I’m pretty sure Kanda is in love with him. Do you know Kanda confronted me about Lavi too? Not about my feelings but to tell me to get my shit together because I’m not just hurting myself by avoiding Lavi- but Lavi too.”

“I wasn’t sure until then, you know. I wasn’t sure that Kanda loved Lavi too. And I don’t know if knowing that they both feel the same way for each other makes it easier to move on or harder. It hurts either way,” Allen confesses, the words spilling out of him like blood from an open wound- like sand between his fingers, “It hurts. And I feel horrible for hurting. For having hoped for a brief second that maybe if Kanda didn’t love Lavi, that maybe he could grow to love me instead.”

“I keep telling myself, ‘I’ll talk to him today,’ like I’m not just saying that to make myself feel better about what I’m doing. I know I can’t keep avoiding him. I know I shouldn’t. But it hurts to know that for all I love him, he will never love me back. And every time I want to talk to him, I can’t help but be reminded of that.” He falls silent, the words triggering an itch and tickling in his throat that he has to hold his breath so that the pain doesn’t spread any further. He presses a hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat pound almost angrily against his palm.

If he closes his eyes, he can focus on the steady rhythm and pretend that everything is alright. Even if it’s just for a moment, just for a second.

The train approaches the city outskirts, London drawing closer with each passing minute.

“I’m glad you talked to me about this,” Krory says softly. He’s kneeling in front of Allen now, pressing the gathered deck of cards into his shaking palm. Although, when exactly he moved escapes Allen. “It’s dangerous to bottle these kinds of emotions up for too long.”

The air escapes Allen all at once.

He wants to cry.

He knows what danger Krory is implying, knows it so intimately that he often spends hours thinking about the flowers born from something tragic and deadly sprouting in his lungs.

He knows first-hand that it’s far too late to avoid the danger. For the danger is his forlorn love twisting inside his chest, bringing petals to his lips.

“I know,” he says instead of admitting this to Krory though.

“I know you don’t want to,” Krory begins, brows furrowing thoughtfully, “But you really should talk to Lavi about this. I know that it must hurt to know about him and Kanda, but isn’t it better to know now than to pine forever in false hope? I know that you can get through this.” He pauses, hesitating for a moment, “It might take a long time. Years even. But at least now you can move on.”

“Moving on?” Allen repeats softly. “You’ve done it haven’t you? Moved on, I mean.”

“I have,” He clears his throat, “And though I will always love Eliade-” Krory blushes, face, and ears flushed a bright red, “-I’ve found a precious person in Miranda, as well.”

“Thank you, Krory, for listening.” Allen smiles and it feels more real than the rest of his smiles have been recently. “For what it’s worth, I think that you and Miranda will make a lovely pair.”

Krory beams at him, “Thank you, Allen.”

The train comes to a stop at the station. Passengers scurry in and out of the open doors, skittering around like busy ants. Both Allen and Krory stand, gathering their luggage and exiting the train as well.

It's not until they're at the base of the cliff below Headquarters that Krory speaks again. “I know you probably don’t think you will, but eventually you’ll be okay.”

The flowers in Allen’s chest prove otherwise- but Allen doesn’t say dare that aloud. 

* * *

 

 

_xvi._

“Your hair has gotten longer, _Menino_ ,” Tyki hums, catching a lock of white hair in his nicotine-stained fingertips. His smile is fond. “I remember when it hardly reached your shoulders. Now look at it.” He twirls the loose lock of hair around his fingers, thoughtfully examining it before he gives it a playful tug. “It makes you look all grown up.”

Allen swats at his hand and mumbles a curse around the red ribbon in his mouth. Timcanpy dangles from the ribbon, swinging from it with his teeth and flicking his tail from side to side.

Tyki isn’t wrong. Where his hair had once hung a little past his ears, it now cascades down his shoulders and near the center of his back. He gathers it in both hands, keeping his bangs free to frame his face and sweeps the rest of it into a low ponytail- shaking his head until Tim releases his hold on the ribbon, fluttering in the air, before using it to secure his hair.

They’re alone this time. Crack, Momo, and Eeze off doing god-knows-what and leaving Tyki alone in the small shack they all live in when they’re in London, working in the factories instead of the usual coal mines. The small shack is warm, a stark contrast to the quickly dropping weather outside. It makes Allen smile, though nostalgia flickers inside him.

He and Mana used to stay in small places like this when they traveled; when the cold began to nip at their fingers and they didn’t have anywhere else to stay. Allen would look at the sky through the dirty windows and tap the fingers of his right hand on the sill, matching the rhythm of his movements to the soft sound of Mana’s humming.

The lullaby always put him at enough ease to drift off to sleep. But now, those memories are bittersweet, tinged with the softness of childhood, yet aching with the knowledge that those times are gone; halcyon days spend up and beyond his reach.

He never did learn the name of that song before Mana died.

“And you haven’t changed at all since I first met you,” Allen says, raising his arms overhead and stretching until his spine pops. He pauses, tilting his head to the side in thought. “Actually, now that I think about it.” He leans closer, squinting at Tyki’s face. “You really haven’t changed… _at all_.”

Tyki wriggles his eyebrows suggestively, “What can I say, _meu querido_? My youthful looks will be staying here for a very long time. In all honesty, it’s not all that good. I get a lot of unwanted suitors because of it. It’s pretty gross when people try to marry their daughters off to me,” He shudders, “I always turn them down.”

Allen doesn’t question the odd commentary, mostly because this isn’t the first time Tyki says something like this, although never in front of the others, and Allen doesn’t want to sound too nosy. He doesn’t ever tell these friends about his missions for the Order, or the tragedies he's often witnessed. So he of all people has no place to force others to talk to him.

“Don’t worry,” Tyki says, after he recovers, sliding his glasses off his face enough to wink at Allen over them, brown eyes bright and mouth curling into a cocky smirk, “If _you’re_ interested in being one of those suitors, I’ll make the exception.”

“You’re such an awful flirt,” Allen says, rolling his eyes and stepping back, pretending he doesn’t feel his cheeks warm at the blatant flirting. “It’s a miracle that people aren’t trying to keep their daughters _away_ from you.”

Tyki’s smile widens, white teeth peeking from between his lips, “I’m telling you, _Menino_ , I’m hard to resist. Although you’re just as irresistible, I’m always tempted to be the one pursuing you instead.” Allen’s face heats up.

“Tyki, have some _shame_.” He hides his face in his hands. Clears his throat to compose himself. Ignores the soft sound of Tyki’s muffled chuckles, “Are we going to play poker or not?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tyki says waving his hand lazily, “I get it, you’re not ready for the romance of your life. The offer doesn’t have an expiration date, just so you know.”

“ _Tyki._ ”

“ _Fine,_ okay. Yes. I’m ready to beat you at cards.”

“It’s funny watching you downplay how often you lose.” Allen drawls- a genuine smirk on his lips and a bright light in his eyes. His cheeks still feel warm.

Tyki gasps in faux offense, “What! You? Beat me? We both know that I let you win out of the kindness of my heart.”

Allen rolls his eyes. “If you say so. I’ve beaten you so many times that at this point, that I’m tempted to let you win just for something different to happen.”

Tyki shuffles the cards in his hands, mouth quirking into a boyish grin as Allen moves towards the rickety kitchen table. “Now, that wouldn’t be any fun, would it? Although, you're in for a surprise if you think you'll beat me this time.”

Allen grins. “I accept your challenge.” 

* * *

 

 

_xvii._

“Allen!” Komui sings over his desk, “I need you to head to India.”

“More Innocence?” He asks with a yawn, petting Tim’s head absentmindedly. He’s just returned after a long mission of destroying Akuma. He’s a bit sore from fighting that Level Three but managed to defeat it with only minimal damage to himself. Since his Innocence evolved almost a full year ago, it’s easier to destroy higher leveled Akuma without being entirely wrapped in bandages by the end of it.

“The Exorcists there requested backup and asked for you by name.”

The words jolt the sleepiness out of him. “Me specifically? Do you know why?”

Komui hums, dramatically shuffling paperwork that has nothing to do with what he’s telling Allen. “In their report, they said something about being unable to find the Akuma they set out to destroy, a Level Three with the ability to change shape at will. Your eye would probably make things a lot easier for them and it’s a simple enough mission that you won’t have to overtax yourself.”

“That makes sense,” Allen turns his head to look at the clock hanging from the wall of the room, “I guess I should head towards the station now.”

Komui makes a sound of approval, “Take care, Allen, let me know when you arrive!”

The walk to the station is short.

He has his luggage in one hand, dodging the other pedestrians with can only be practiced ease. The morning sun is warm overhead, contrasting with the chilled winter air that fogs up his breath in front of him. It's not cold enough for snow, not yet, but the morning air still nips at his nose.

He reaches the station soon enough. Waiting for the next train to arrive.

And when it pulls into the station, thick pillars of wafting smoke streaming from the pipes, out of it comes Lavi, garish orange scarf wrapped around his throat, hair as red as the shades of the sun when it sets the sky aflame.

They spot each other at the same time. Allen freezes in his tracks while Lavi looks entirely blindsided.

“Oh hey there,” Lavi says after an awkward moment of just staring at each other, “How ya been Allen? It’s been a while.”

“Hi Lavi,” He manages, slipping a practiced smile on his face. If it's a little wobbly around the edges, neither of them point it out.

“You've been avoiding me,” Lavi says instead of bothering with small-talk, green eye piercing through the mask that Allen pulls to his face, straight to the trembling mess he is below.

Allen's throat closes. He wasn't expecting this. Not today. Not like this. He's not ready for this confrontation, not at all, despite having thought of the things he wants to say since he finally made up his mind about talking to Lavi.

“Ya know, it's not like you were subtle ‘bout it,” Lavi comments, bringing his arms behind his head, “And s’not like you've been at the Headquarters long enough for me to actually talk to ya.”

“Lavi, I-”

“How about this?” Lavi interrupts, “I'm cashing in those two questions you owe me. Ya remember the ones I’m talking about right?” Allen nods mutely. “You gotta give me an honest answer too.” Bright green meets his own silver. “So here's the first one. What has ya so spooked that ya turn tail every time I come around?”

It's just like Lavi to cut straight into the heart of things in only seconds.

“Oh, yeah about that,” Allen replies with a forced laugh, “I… Um, was going through a…  thing but… uh it's better now!”

Lavi tilts his head to the side, before giving Allen a thumbs down, “Hmm, nope! Gonna need a bit more explanation than that, buddy. Look, Allen,” he says with a sigh, after Allen has stood in frozen silence, mouth working soundlessly but no word escaping him, for a few moments, “I was really worried about you. I'm just trying to find out what happened to make you pull back out of nowhere.”

“I was scared,” Allen finally admits, hearing Krory’s advice echo in his mind as he turns his eyes down, looking at the buttons on Lavi’s uniform. “And the only thing I thought I could do was pull away.” The cold air nips at his cheeks. A burst of strong wind moves his bangs around his face, the hair tied back shifting with the gust. “I thought I needed time. Distance. Just to figure myself out before I dragged anyone into my mess.”

And here Allen feels his breath catch in his throat, flowers like barbed wire inside his chest, “Because I know about you and Kanda, and back then, when I first figured it out, I wasn't ready to face it. I’m over it now though, and just happy that you and Kanda found each other.”

Lavi’s face freezes, before it falls, quickly catching on to the implications. The crowd around them continues on, oblivious to the conversation occurring in their midst. “I had a suspicion, but I wasn’t too sure, not until now.” He continues with a frown, “Allen, this isn’t something that you can make light of so easily. There are dangers that come from not facing these kinds of things properly, ya know?”

Oh, Allen knows. He knows the dangers so well that he’s fighting back the blossoms forcing their way up his throat as he speaks. The question echoes in his brain and Allen almost gives his instinctive response of ‘I'm fine’ before he catches himself, giving it genuine thought.

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” Allen says haltingly, speaking aloud as he sorts through his thoughts,  “Or to even avoid you this long. But I think that I needed to face this on my own first, to sort myself out before I could face you again.”

Lavi doesn't say anything for a moment, before he exhales loudly and rubs a hand across his face. “Ya have some real communication issues, ya know that?”

Allen half-smiles, “It's been brought to my attention before.”

“So, are you okay now? It sucked to have you avoid me but I don’t want you to force yourself either.”

“I'm getting there.” Allen says after a moment, “There are things that make it a bit hard-” the flowers, of course, “-but I talked to Krory and he gave me good advice. I'm not okay right now, not _really_ , but I'm not as bad as I was. And for now, I think that's the most as I can ask for.”

“ _Lavi-”_ Komui’s voice crackles through his golem, “- _where are you?”_

“I just got off the train,” Lavi says, rolling eyes at the whine that comes over the line of communication. “Just doing some chit-chatting before I head back.”

“ _Lavi, hurry up! I have an experiment I want you to test out for me.”_

 _“_ Yeah, yeah. I heard you the first few times. I'll head right over.” Lavi turns his attention back to Allen, scanning him with his eye before nodding to himself. “I’m glad you're talking to me again, it's kinda boring without you to pester, _Moyashi._ ”

“Lavi, I'm sorry.”

“Hey, it's cool, Really. I’m not mad now that you explained it, plus you're looking a bit better. I think we should actually talk about this when we have the chance to though. But for now, it’s all good. I got my answers.” Lavi says, tucking his hands into his coat pockets, eye gleaming a brilliant green, “Ya heard the Boss, I've gotta get going. I’ll see you around.”

He pauses, eye darting around before settling on Allen, “I’m glad you’re a bit better. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry too.” He adds before shooting Allen a smile and straightening his scarf as he walks away.

Allen waits until Lavi vanishes into the crowd before he whirls around, clamping a hand over his mouth and searching for somewhere he can cough up the things growing in his lungs.

He stumbles into a nearby alley, one hand clutching at his chest, as if he can claw the flowers out of his lungs if he tries hard enough. The other, pressed against the filthy alley floor; bracing himself as bloody, hacking coughs shake his entire body. He gasps for air and gags when something obstructs his airway.

_(Mana gagged too, near the end, so much that he didn’t have the chance to breathe, white poppies choking him as they fell from his mouth and onto the floor; so much that streams of bile and blood mixed together, dripping from his heaving mouth.)_

Allen coughs up hyacinths, entire stalks of the plant scraping the inside of his throat and leaving wounds that weep, no, _scream_ , blood. Roots tangle around each other and slide out from his lips in bloodied clumps.

_It hurts._

His bangs stick to his sweaty forehead. The taste of blood so heavy in his mouth that when he brings a hand up and scrubs it across his lips, he's not surprised by the wetness on his glove- by the bloody, bloody, red that mars the white.

He doesn't know how long he kneels there, shaking. His lungs spasming but feeling clear for the first time in months, as if everything inside them has been purged and nothing remains. He thinks that it's a fool's dream to hope that this is the end of it but it doesn't stop him from breathing through the tang of iron in his mouth counting-

_1… 2… 3… Breathe._

Allen's lungs hurt _-_ although the ache isn't as bad as it had once been. He doesn't dare hope that it's for the reason he thinks. That he's learning how to live with the thought of Lavi not being his.

Even though, as Allen counts by the seconds that pass, he thinks of Krory’s words back then. Of, _“It might take a long time. Years even. But at least now you can move on_ …. _Eventually you'll be okay.”_

He hadn't been sure of it until now. But maybe he will be okay one day. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow.

But one day.

_4… 5… 6… Breathe._

* * *

 

 

_xviii._

Eventually, he pulls himself together.

He cleans himself of the blood and spit and flower petals; unable to speak, throat rubbed raw and aching, _throbbing_ , in time with his heartbeat. He makes his way to the train in a daze, bumping into more than a one person but too exhausted to even bother trying to apologize. He hides his bloody gloves in his pockets and tries not to look too out of it as he cuts through the crowd.

“ _Menino?_ ” A voice calls just as the train doors slide open but Allen doesn’t hear it, stepping aboard in a daze. And when he flashes the Rose Cross to his chest to the train attendant, dragging his weary body to the train compartment reserved for him- Allen doesn’t look out the window, only pressing his feverish forehead to the glass and slipping into an exhausted sleep.

He doesn't see how Tyki follows the departing train with eyes hidden behind the thick lenses of his glasses. Or how a concerned frown overtakes his face as he looks through the window, at Allen’s pale face and closed eyes and sweat sticking his bangs to his forehead; staring after the locomotive long after it pulls away and vanishes into the line of the morning horizon.

Tyki’s hands are shoved in his pockets, head tilted to the side as he thinks about what could be wrong with Allen- with the only Exorcist he would never really want to kill, as pretty as that white hair and pale skin would look bruised and bloody under his fingertips. Tyki shivers, not just from the wind, even as it pierces his clothes and chills his skin. And with the wind comes a butterfly, flying toward him, dark wings fluttering a mix of black and violet.

He extends his fingers for the Tease to gently land on. It beats its wings for a moment before the Earl’s voice resounds through his mind, speaking through the dainty-looking golem, “ _It’s time for things to get started. Let’s all have a good family dinner before we set everything in motion .”_

Tyki smiles. The Earl is always so excited to host the Noah get-togethers, even though they usually end the same way. With Road tricking him into doing her homework, Skin beating another Akuma maid until they crumble into dust; and the twins wreaking havoc at the dinner table. The Tease slips through his skin and where others of its kind dwell, they flutter in his stomach for a moment before settling down, making Tyki let out an amused snort at the literal meaning behind the phrase, “Butterflies in his stomach,” when it comes to him.

He lets his feet take him to the darkness of an alley, skin darkening to an ashen gray and irises melting into a bright gold. He’s halfway between human and Noah. Somewhere between Tyki and Joyd- an amalgamate of the two- when he catches sight of _it_ and feels his breath catch in his throat. Flowers.

“ _Oh_ ,” Tyki Mikk breathes into the shadows of the alley as he catches sight of a large tangle of leaves and roots and flowers near the trash cans. He kneels down to pick up the bunch of purple hyacinths, cradling them in his hands with no regard of the blood that seeps into the silk of his gloves. “ _Oh.”_

He knows what this is.

Has watched as his mother wasted away, choking on bright pink anemones when his father- _of noble blood with a noble wife and a noble first born son-_ refused to acknowledge Tyki as his own, refused to spare any attention towards the mistress so in love with him it was killing her.

His hands cradle the bloodied blossoms between his fingers, as if holding something precious, as if touching something toxic- as if unsure which of the two holds truest to the emotions swirling in his chest.

He knows what this is.

Would have choked on the striped carnations that unfurled in his chest once he started meaning the offers to elope with Allen, once he saw that loving an Exorcist would bring him nothing but grief; had he not the ability to choose what could touch him, had he not reached into chest to get them out- one by one, gazing long at the flowers as Road fell quiet at his side.

He raises a hand to press against his sternum. The beating of his heart thrumming against his palm, against the bunch of violet blossoms still in his hand. A smear of blood lingers on the white of his shirt when he finally removes his hand, the flowers along with it, and tucks a few of the buds into the pocket of his trousers. The rest he holds gingerly in his hands.

What ugly things. What horribly beautiful, bloody, bloody, bunches of purple flowers.

He tightens his hold on the flowers, feeling the Tease inside him flutter around at his agitation.

The petals are crushed in his grasp. Purple fluids mingling with the red of Allen’s blood and staining his gloves for a brief moment. For a brief second in which he just stares at the mix of colors on his hands, a swirl of repulsion and something like grief pressing down on him.

Then, he closes his eyes and exhales, letting it seep through his body, the liquid landing on the ground with a soft sound. Turning his eyes upward to the undulated expanse of the sky and letting his lips curl into a bitter, pained smile. 

* * *

 

 

_xix._

The Noah finally make their move after their three year long absence.

The ache of his lungs, the conflicting emotions inside him, falls to the wayside in the light of the declaration of war that comes with the murder of General Yeegar and the bodies of Finders and Exorcists piling up all around the world. The orders come to protect the remaining Generals and with only a few days to prepare for departure- with Lenalee, Bookman, and Lavi as the members as the same unit as him- Allen sets out to see Tyki and the others before it’s too late to say goodbye.

He finds the others at the house. Tyki, he notices, isn’t there when he arrives.

“He might be down by the Thames,” Eeze tells him, after Allen has told him that he won’t be able to come around for a while. “It’s where he goes to think about stuff.  He won’t tell us anything about it- but something has been bothering him since he came back from his secret job.”

“Secret… job?” Allen repeats questioningly.

It’s Momo that answers, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “Forgot that ya didn’t know about that. Basically, Tyki gets these call sometimes from… this really weird guy. And when he does, he goes off for a few days. He always comes back with a hefty amount of cash, soo we just started calling it his ‘secret job’ since he doesn’t ever give us any details about it.”

“Yeah,” Crack interjects, “We once asked if he could talk his boss into givin’ us some work and he said he’d mention it. He never brought it up again though, so we figured his boss said no or somethin’ like that.”

“I guess that explains a few things,” Allen begins haltingly, though it really does. He was already pretty sure that Tyki is actually some form of nobility, with all that he talks about fathers trying to marry their daughters off to him to curry his brother’s favor. The brother, never really elaborated on beyond a scowl and a, ‘ _Hopefully, you’ll be lucky enough to never have to meet him.’_

Allen rubs the back of his head, Timcanpy sitting on his shoulder and swishing his tail lazily. “Is Tyki okay with you guys telling me this?”

Eeze shrugs. “I dunno. He’s not here to stop us.”

The blase attitude makes him smile. “Speaking of which, I have to let him know I’ll be gone. You said he’s down by the Thame?” Eeze nods and Allen bids his farewells, not making the promise to see them soon- _the life of an Exorcist doesn’t allow him to make those kinds of oaths_ \- but letting them know that he’ll swing back around when he can.

Tyki is, in fact, by the Thames.

The river is stretched out before him, shifting and churning as ships cut through the water. He sits on the ground, the earth curved upward in a small hill and carpeted in surprisingly healthy grass. It’s a good spot to just sit back and watch the ships sail by. To see the sun glimmer off the top of the water and change the color of it depending on how low it hangs in the sky.

A butterfly lands on Tyki’s fingers- all graceful lines and wings tinted a violet so dark it appears almost black. It beats its wings for a moment before going completely still. Tyki raises the unmoving insect to his lips and brushes them across the delicate membrane of its wings, just before the butterfly takes to the air once more, slipping by Allen and brushing against his cheek.

“Tyki, there you are,” Allen sighs in relief, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear, “I just came from seeing everyone else and they told me you might be here.”

“ _A praga das flores_ ,” Tyki says in place of a greeting, eyes not turning away from the glistening waters of the Thames and voice soft as he speaks his native tongue. He isn’t frowning or smiling, face oddly blank. “ _A doença dos não amados.”_

“Tyki?”

“That’s what they call it in my country.” Tyki’s voice gives nothing away. Calm.

Allen’s mouth goes dry. For some reason, his hands tremble at his sides. Tyki hasn’t turned to look at him a single time since he’s spoken, hasn’t made a single joke or offer to play a quick game of cards.

_Something’s wrong._

“That’s what they call… what exactly?”

Tyki smiles. Mirthless and fleeting.

_Something’s wrong._

There’s something between his fingers, something small and violet. Allen can’t make it out in the distance, but something about it strikes him as familiar. He takes cautious steps forward. His heart in his throat and counting the breaths he takes so that his composure doesn’t crumble.

Then, Allen is close enough that he can see exactly what Tyki holds in his fingers, what he rolls between his calloused fingers. It’s like watching an accident in slow motion, like seeing first-hand as a disaster unfolds before his unwilling eyes. He can’t tear his gaze away.

And before Tyki can speak, Allen knows.

He knows what he’s going to say, can see it in the tense set of his shoulders- in the small parting of his lips as he draws in breath to speak. Can see it in the way his hands stop moving, uncurling little by little to show what he holds. He can see it because in Tyki’s hands is what has been haunting Allen since they first appeared, since they first made home in his lungs and left him to choke.

“The Plague of Flowers,” Tyki says, revealing the bunch of purple blossoms in his palm. They’re slightly discolored, a bit of rust staining a few of the petals with what Allen knows is his blood. Tyki looks melancholic. “The disease of the unloved.”

 _The disease of the unloved_ , Allen hears echo in his head and he hasn’t felt this light-headed since he first spit up a flower petal, since he choked out entire stalks of hyacinths in the quiet of his moonlight bedroom.

 _“_ You're dying.” It isn't a question but a statement- an observation delivered in a voice as soft as an exhale. And maybe Tyki can read the expression on his face, because his own face shutters; the emotions from earlier disappearing in the blink of an eye.

And what can Allen do besides nod?

What can he do besides try to hold back tears at the truth that Tyki speaks?

Tyki rises from his seat on the ground at Allen’s silence. He steps closer, face still blank but hands trembling the slightest bit as they reach for him. He tugs Allen close, pressing his face into the crown of Allen’s head and exhaling shakily.

He pulls away to look at Allen straight-on. “You’re dying because you fell in love with someone that doesn’t love you back.”

‘ _You weren’t supposed to know,’_ Allen wants to scream, _‘No one was supposed to know.’_

He counts the seconds- _1, 2, 3…. 4, 5, 6-_ not daring to breathe, to move with Tyki so close to him, in fear that he may shatter the moment.

“Allen,” Tyki says, voice rough and scratchy, “I wish that you had chosen me.”

He freezes. Surely Tyki doesn’t mean…

“I wouldn’t have let this happen.”

“You’d have to love me back for that to work,” Allen finds himself saying, as if speaking from a distance, heart pounding in his throat. “You’d have to force yourself to love me back.”

“Oh, _meu coração_ .” Tyki whispers, his native tongue falling from his lips like honey, “You say that as if you’re unlovable. _Você não sabe que eu te amo, menino bobo?_ Did you think I was asking you to run away with me as a joke?”

He doesn’t look away from Allen’s face, thumb tracing the vivid red line on his left cheek with something akin to reverence. With something akin to loss. Like he’s mourning something he hasn’t had the chance to lose just yet.

Allen’s eyes flutter shut, his lashes sweeping across his cheeks, white and silvery even against the paleness of his skin. The cold night air has left the tip of his nose red, has left goosebumps all over his exposed flesh.

It happens slowly, gradually. Tyki brings his face closer and the distance between their mouths shrinks. Their breaths mingle as they draw closer and closer, their lips only centimeters apart.

Tyki’s eyes are intense, darker now, pupils nearly consuming the iris entirely.

And then, he brings his mouth down, a soft kiss that evolves into a dance of tongue and lips and teeth. It’s sloppy, more passion than finesse. But Allen almost loses himself in the sensation all the same. In the softness of Tyki’s lips against his own, in feeling of being so close to someone that he can feel their heart pounding in their chests. Allen curls his fingers around the fabric of Tyki’s shirt and doesn’t know what to do, whether to push him away or pull him closer.

This is wrong. He’s in love with Lavi isn’t he? It’s his love for Lavi that is killing him after all, isn’t it? It doesn’t feel wrong. Not with the way the tension in his chest dissipates for as long as they remain pressed together.

Not with how there is no part of him that seeks comfort in reciting familiar numbers in his head.

“Oh, _Menino,_ ” Tyki whispers, pulling away just enough that the words brush against his skin, “Oh, _Allen_ , I’m sorry.”

(It will be too late when Allen realizes what Tyki had meant when he whispered, “I’m sorry,” against his lips; an omen, a supplication for the sins he had yet to commit but would do anyway- because he too is a soldier, and he too is willing to bloody his hands for his cause. _It’s not until Tyki has his hand inside his chest- ashen skin, golden eyes, and Suman’s death on his hands- that Allen finally understands.)_

“It’s okay,” Allen murmurs, cheeks flushed, mouth swollen, and hair mused. He regains his senses enough to move away, mind whirling with the new information and heart fluttering in his chest.

He doesn’t know how to feel about Tyki’s actions, about the realization that maybe all those flirtatious words- all those heated looks- weren’t meant to just embarrass him after all.

He needs time to think.

Time to sort through the tangled feelings he has towards both Lavi and Tyki. Time to come to terms with the fact that kissing Tyki doesn’t feel wrong, not like it would have if he still clung onto the hope that one day he would receive Lavi’s love. He tells Tyki so.

“I just need some time,” He sits on the grass besides Tyki, occasionally shooting shy glances his way. He takes deep breath, nervously picking at grass around him with his fingers. “I just need some time to figure out what I want to do.”

And something terribly _sad_ crosses Tyki’s face at his words- something like longing and grief and regret and pain, all mixed into one. But he doesn’t say anything about it, nodding, tilting his head to look at the sky, endless and blue, reflected in the water. 

* * *

 

 

_xx._

Allen will not notice until later; when he is on a train with Lenalee and Bookman and Lavi; that the ache in his lungs has eased. He will think nothing of it, not until he wakes up in an infirmary of a place he has never seen- with an agony inside him that has nothing to do with the flowers he is told no longer live in his lungs. They will tell him that the flowers must have withered on their own, that he must be one of the percent that moves on from the person killing them and goes on to live- to survive the Flower Plague.

Allen is the only one that knows. Only he and Tyki.

They’re the only ones that know that in the thick bamboo forest of China, as the moon hung high overhead and even the singing of insects was silent; that Tyki, dressed like the nobleman Allen always suspected him to be, kissed him once more, whispering both supplications and apologies against his lips at once.

“I’m sorry,” Tyki had said, as he wrapped his hand around Allen’s Innocence, crushing it under his fingertips but unwilling to do the same with his life. “Without Innocence you’re not an Exorcist.” He tried to justify, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself than Allen, “And if you’re not an Exorcist, then I have no reason to kill you.”

They’re the only ones that will know that when Tyki’s hand reached into his chest, he didn’t immediately brush his gloved fingers against his heart. That Tyki traced the inside of his lungs, following tangles of roots and flowers and stems, before disentangling them; plucking them out of Allen’s chest with more care and gentleness than anyone should ever show their enemy.

“Live, _meu coração_ , and don't let this war be the one to kill you.” The Noah- _his friend, his Tyki_ . _A stranger. A lost future. A man who’s kisses taste like smoke and honey_ **-** had thrown back before he left, warm brown eyes now shining a dizzying gold and butterflies fluttering around his head like an aura of beating wings. Leaving Allen, bloody and battered and _alone_ behind him.

He arrives in Edo sooner than later, no hole in his heart- alive, beaten; with grief lining the edges of his heart and his lungs clear of the flowers that had once sprouted inside them.

He survives Noah’s Ark by pretending that it doesn’t hurt to see that Tyki has chosen duty over what they could have been. He survives by coming to terms with the fact that he is doing the same thing; just on the other side of the war.

And just like Tyki did back when he dissolved Allen’s Innocence into dust-

-back when his fingers wrapped around his heart with the intention to crush it in his hands before pulling away with a frustrated, “ _Meu amor_ , _if only I could bring myself to kill you now. To spare you the burdens of this war and so you could wait for me in another life-”_

Allen finds himself whispering, “ _I’m sorry,”_ as he shoves his Sword of Exorcism into Tyki’s chest. _Maybe,_ he had thought, foolishly naive, _Maybe if the Noah memory is killed then everything can go back to how it was._ As if that wasn't what Tyki himself had hoped for when he told Allen to live and run.

As if they both aren't fools for thinking that the war would let the other go so easily.

It will be too late when Allen realizes that his wish for- _time, time, please just a little more time-_ will not come true. Because there is no time left for anything to blossom from what he and Tyki could one day have had. Because time is what neither of them have, not when there is a war between them and they are on opposing sides.

The image of Tyki screaming in agony; of blood spilling up and past his lips; does not leave him. Nor do the ones of him reaching for Allen in his last moments of awareness back in the Ark, scarlet-stained lips rasping out the words, “ _Não chore por mim, meu coração,”_ before he transformed into something that was less Tyki and more monster _._

It doesn’t leave him even months later, months full of bloodshed and death and distrust. When he becomes hated and feared, nearly overnight. When he becomes caged and observed, like an animal on the verge of snapping.

It doesn’t leave him even after the Akuma’s egg is destroyed at the cost of so many of his friend’s lives. After the Noah’s Ark becomes his to command, the power of the Fourteenth right at his fingertips.

Even when his nightmares are full of Level Fours, angry faces spitting the title _‘Fourteenth’_ and ‘ _Noah’_ and ‘ _Destroyer of time’_ and ‘ _traitor’_ in the same breath; Tyki’s voice echos inside his mind, as do the phantom press of his lips.

No matter the assurances he gives himself that it’s for the best that he never grew to love Tyki; it's a weak lie, one he finds himself doubting when he feels his heart skip a beat at seeing something that reminds him of the crook of Tyki’s grin, of the playful lilt in his voice.

It doesn’t change the fact that he wakes up with Tyki’s name on his tongue and dreams of what it was like to call Tyki his, just for a moment, just for a day; when they kissed like they wasn’t still a battlefield between what could ever be a happy ending for either of them.

And it _aches_ to have had a taste of what could be, only to watch as it slips from between his fingers. It _burns_ especially to know that this fleeting thing, this almost-love that grew through the years without his notice; that persisted even through the ache of love in his lungs; is just that. A fleeting almost-love.

A day is long and every moment of separation burns at him; sorrow and anguish melting together, growing and spreading- until there is nothing Allen Walker can do but mourn the loss of something that never _was_ to begin with and do his best to convince himself that maybe this loss of opportunity is for the best.

Even as his ears still ring with the sound of Tyki whispering, “ _Você não sabe que eu te amo, menino bobo?”_ Knowing that maybe if he had more time, Allen may have one day been able to say the same. But Allen forces himself to keep on going, to keep on fighting for the cause that he believes in.

He forces himself to keep on walking, even as his steps are followed closely by regret.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This has been pretty fun, albeit a bit stressful. I really enjoyed writing this and getting to meet a lot of other members of the fandom. Although the next Big Bang isn't until in a while, I'm already plotting out the next work I'd like to write for it. 
> 
> I hope to see you all then as well. Thank you for reading, and thanks to TittyAlways for the art I know will be amazing. C:


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